


In The Face Of Adversity

by RAAMIsABeast



Series: Short Stories [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Amputation, Angel Wings, Angels, Angels vs. Demons, Demons, Demons Are Assholes, Hell, Hellhounds, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, POV Third Person, Servants, Slavery, Warnings May Change, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-27 10:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20758526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAAMIsABeast/pseuds/RAAMIsABeast
Summary: Molotov choked as the now free Angel strangled him, the bindings on his wings close to breaking. Should have listened to his Sire's warnings on having a captive Angel.Sweat dropped down the entire body of the captive, dampening his feathers and nearly blinding him. Hell was too hot for him. And yet he had the resolve to snap the bindings around his wrists and tackle the larger Demon. And now choke him.Gwen shuddered as a foot connected to the Angel's already bruised stomach, the Angel groaning in agony. But... the Angel was so focused on killing the heir of Satan, he didn't hear the throne room door open.





	1. Caught

**Author's Note:**

> There will be some dark stuff in here, and I will warn without spoiling the chapter if it's something that could be a trigger/too much.

The wind howled in rage as lightning slashed a bright white scar across the darkness. Near black clouds hung over the forest and the clearing within its clutches, pregnant with rain and close to bursting. In the distance, weaker clouds were drained of the rain they carried, creating the illusion of an encroaching, shimmering wall hammering down upon the emerald canopy.

It reached the miniscule clearing with its gargantuan height at the same time two figures crashed into each other with booming war cries. Thunder answered their calls with a much more intimidating bellow, the rain slamming into feathered wings and a flailing tail.

A man adorned with gleaming golden armour, smaller than his opponent, and a beast clasped in dull silver grappled at one another. Weapons had been lost in the chase, thrown to slow one another down with a well placed hit to the leg or the wing. A lucky throw had burrowed a sword in the expanse of the smaller one’s golden feathered wing, grounding him from retreating should the fight go awry. 

Now the fight was kill or be killed. 

He was at a disadvantage due to the height and weight difference. And the sword. It was easy to grab and yank his wing painfully, causing him to shout in pain.

“Yield!”

The beast snarled as he finally managed to pin the other down.

“I’ll never yield to the likes of you, heathen!”

Claws hooked into his chin, blood pouring down his neck and filling his mouth from the rends in his soft skin. A hearty pull and the sword was removed from his appendage with a spraying cascade of blood. Already, the pelting rain delved into his deep injuries, their deep injuries, for the beast was not unscathed, and dredged up a red river to carve its path down their bodies.

“You will in time. Perhaps not to me exactly, but to a Demon you will.”

Crimson eyes glared down into purple ones, slit pupils blown wide by adrenaline, the dimness of night, and anger. The rest of his skin was red, but the caught male cared not for the specifics. What had been two great, curving horns now stood at one and a half, he noted with more than a little glee. Bet that hurt the fucker more than a little. Good.

“What’s your name, Angel?”

“None of your business, beast.”

The beast laughed, throwing his head back and flicking a trail of blood from his broken horn over the Angel’s face. Stupid beast, laughing like he had said something funny. _I’ll kill you_, the Angel thought as he glared, remembering the huge beast’s face for future reference. 

“Call me Baja, and remember me as the Demon to catch you, wild Angel. Even if I’m not the one to tame your ire.”

He pulled his hand back, curled into a fist, and slammed metal protected knuckles into his captive’s pretty face. His nose was broken, but the punch had done its purpose of knocking him out. Now, to carry him back down into the pits of Hell.


	2. Command

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While he refers to himself and others as servants, their actual status is slave. Servant just sounds better for new slaves and for themselves.

Awaking with a groan, Gwen sat up gingerly. His leg hurt again, probably because he had been ragged around last night. Molotov had thought it fun to attach Gwen to his claws and act like he was a dumbbell or weight. His head throbbed for his attention, and a small touch to the back of his skull had him wincing and gasping. Ow. what happened there? Ah yes, when Molotov banged his head lifting him up. That foolish child… Gwen daren’t say his anger and frustration out loud. He might be punished by his Master, Molotov’s father.

“Gwen?”

“I’m awake.”

“Master is asking for you to bring up the binds for wings from the basement.”

Basement… He shuddered.

“I’ll get it now.”

His fellow servant - slave - nodded and left the room to let his Master know he was doing as asked. After taking a moment to clear his head with more than enough water down his throat, Gwen stood, stumbling as his leg seized up from the pain. He moaned. _You’d think I’d be used to it by now…_, he thought dryly as he regained some stability, enough to wrap a fresh loincloth around his waist.

He remembered when just this simple cloth around his waist used to make him sweat like a pig about to be devoured by Hellhounds. Now though, with Molotov and his grabby claws and his lack of care for how he grabbed a servant to mess with them, he was glad that his most sensitive parts had even this meagre amount of protection. 

But time spent in the shared quarters for male servants was time wasted tending to the command given by his Master. Gwen hurried along as best he could with a limp and a throbbing headache. And the basement… he stalled a little. Hated that place. Hated what his Master was capable of doing to servants he grew bored of, or captives he took a liking to.

The halls rose up around him, thick and impenetrable. All Gwen knew - as with many of the other servants - was these walls. Ever since he was a child, Hell’s heat had choked him for breath. His birthplace, the chambers servants were… bred. Parents chosen by their Masters, in this case the leader of Hell. 

Soon the thick metal doors were looming above his short 5ft 10” at a staggering 15ft. Had to be that tall, however. After all, his Master was no dainty stick; he was a thick trunk, and most Demons easily had a head and shoulders above the average man. 

Two guards stood at the entrance, wearing a simple armour that protected their neck, arms, belly and thighs. Above their loincloths, a codpiece acted as a barrier to any angry beast sentient enough to go for the loins.

“State your business, slave.”

A hiss, more than a little bored. No doubt they would be looking for an excuse to have some fun with Gwen. He subtly bared his shoulder enough to show a specific mark as he bowed submissively, and answered.

“I’ve merely come for wing bindings, Sir, as my Master has requested.”


	3. Basement

After a moment, the guards nodded to one another and moved to the side. As they did, they both pressed a button on the wall, and the closed doors split down the middle in two. The halves separated, a discarded broken piece of chain catching along the bottom of one and screeching the rest of the way.

“Fucking hell, Vanoa...”

“We should make him fix the door next time.”

“He’ll just pull rank. Nothing we can do.”

The older one turned to Gwen again.

“Hurry, now. I hear its feeding time today and you don’t want to get caught now, do you?”

The human servant shuddered, shaking his head.

“No, sir.”

He stepped over the broken piece of chain, hearing it scrape across the floor as it was hefted up by the smaller Demon to be given to the Molter to melt. The Molter was an old Hell Dragon, who had lost its wings to his Master and now served him as loyally as any raised Hell Dragon. Why or how, Gwen didn’t know. He did know Hell Dragons were pack animals. Perhaps the removal of its wings showed his Master was stronger, and thus the leader of the pack. 

Anyway, he was getting distracted again. The basement was down a flight of stairs near the back of this hallway, behind a fingerprint locked door. Gwen’s fingerprint would be allowed, he knew, as his Master had made sure of it. All the better to serve him well.

Each step felt colder and colder as he descended them, the air cooling against his skin. Even being a creature of cooler temperatures, - another servant had been from Earth and told him how unbearably sweltering Hell was, and she had been from Africa, whatever that meant - Gwen hated being down here. Compared to the heat only a flight of stairs above, the cold, damp basement was a huge freezer.

He passed two locked and bolted doors, shuddering at the groans of agony and suffering that bled through. And the insanity, the laughs too. Driven insane and left to rot and fight and eat whatever morsels the guard on duty dropped into their pit. 

Entering another door, a push one, Gwen bowed to the guard on duty. She was a common one, and mute, so she didn’t ask. None of them really did. After all, why would they question the Dominant Demon’s current favourite errand servant entering the basement to gather requested items? They had no reason to.

He stood on the spare chair to reach the wing bindings, holding a pair in his hands. If his Master was asking for wing bindings, that meant Baja’s stint in the Fire Forest had a more sinister purpose than to merely bring some rare herbs back to be cultivated for whatever use they had. That meant… There was an Angel here. In Hell. Maybe an Angel could help the servants here, like that Earth born woman said they had done on Earth.

But just one Angel in Hell wasn’t enough. An army might not be enough. And all Gwen had to look forward to as retirement was agony, suffering and insanity. 


	4. Angel

Returning from the basement shocked his system with boiling heat, and Gwen was panting by the time he walked past the two guards at the thick door. Neither spoke to him, stoic like the Gatekeepers at Hell’s gates. After a few moments, his body adjusted to the usual heat again, and he followed a well trodden path in his mind. The path from the basement to the throne room. Used to be forced to walk this path every day, and each mistake was five lashes with a horse crop. An Earthen horse crop. 

That first day, he had ended up with at least 100 lashes, and if not for his Master finding his threshold and stopping, he might not have been able to walk as well to this day. 

The throne room was silent as Gwen entered, even though there were five other beings within its walls. Well. Not completely silent. In the middle of the room, forced to his knees by Baja's heavy hand, was a beautiful and harshly breathing Angel. Gripped by Baja, he was stuck there, but his wings twitched against the other hand, as if wanting to snap out and smack him across the face.

Golden feathers were slick with sweat and drying blood, and Gwen was spell bound by his beauty for a moment.

"Wow..."

He gasped softly.

"Finally. You're slow, human."

The servant jumped as a smaller Demon - Vanoa, small but vicious and merciless - pushed himself off the wall, snatching the wing bindings and sauntering over to the Angel.

"See these, you pretty thing?"

He grinned, waving them threateningly in front of the Angel. Other than a heated glare, the caught male didn't answer. That merely had a laugh bubble from him.

However, once he came closer to fit the bindings over the wings, the Angel growled angrily and struggled futilely. Most of his armour had been stripped off, and it was no trouble for Vanoa to dig his fingers into a deep wound on his stomach and _pull._ Naturally, the Angel bellowed in agony, body seizing and giving the half incubus the opportunity to clasp his wings together with the bindings.

This close, Gwen could see the way the binding pressed against the joints at the base of his wings, cutting into the skin as the Angel tried to snap them instinctively. The rest of the binding was fitted over the expanse of the wings like a net, and pinned both wings together behind his back.

Baja let go with a cruel shove, chuckling at the Angel as he face planted. His hands were bound behind his back too, with iron cuffs, and so struggling back to his knees exhausted the already dehydrated being.

"He's pretty, Sire."

A voice purred from behind Gwen. He knew that voice, and shivered. Molotov had come out of his room, it seemed. Probably curious; this would be his first Angel meeting after all.

"Indeed."

His Master, the Dominant of Hell, lazily reclined in his ornate and skull decorated throne, agreed with his offspring.

"He is indeed."


	5. Satan

Burgundy skin - rough and able to rub his inner thighs raw, Gwen remembered - gleamed in the Hellfire Blight’s light, trapped in its birdcage on the ceiling. Along his chest and navel, brown speckles, some stretching as far as an inch in length and half an inch in width, were lightly sprinkled. Gwen estimates there were about 10 or 20. Not many. 

White pupils, in their neutral circular shape, shifted from the panting Angel to the servant, surrounded by sacramento iris’ and unnaturally ablaze. The pupils narrowed ever so slightly and Gwen flinched as relatively short claws tangled in his hair and dragged him down to the floor at the Demon’s feet, to the left of his throne. A sharp, spade tipped tail lazily curled around his waist possessively, the tip resting on his thigh. At least the claws removed themselves from his hair after a few more seconds of arranging him to the Demon’s preferences. 

In front of them, the Angel was glaring, at both the Dominant’s blatant disregard for the human’s wishes, and the human for allowing himself to be pulled to and fro like a toy. Then again, he couldn’t help but think, the human had probably been born in Hell, into slavery, and his role as an expendable toy.

“What’s your name, beast?”

He hissed, ignoring the chuckle from Baja, the foolish brute to capture him. Before him, the Demon lazily leant forward, interest flashing across his eyes, the most expressive part of him so far. Had the poker face down to a T. 

“Call me Satan.”

Again, he doubted the Demon’s word - had been doubting every word spoken from their cursed lips - and glared. Humans created that name for the first Fallen Arch Angel, not realising Demons were not Fallen Angels of any kind. No,Demons were much more foul. Discounting Aiden Winterfield, that traitorous genocidal maniac. He had been dealt with, however, trapped without his memories and his power. He should have been killed instead.

“Beast suits you more. Liar.”

The black skinned whelp laughed, nudging the older Demon.

“He’s calling you a liar, Sire. Are you going to stand for that?”

What a little shit stirrer.

He was ignored, and this “Satan” allowed a grin to settle upon his face, showing the barest hints of the tips of sharp and surprisingly white teeth. No. That was… impossible! All Demons had rotting, disgusting yellowed teeth! White teeth belonged to Angels!

“Show me your teeth, fiend!”

He snarled in a manner unbecoming of an Angel, yanking harshly at his wing bindings in vain. Fresh blood, spilled right from the vessels, sluggishly fought its way down his feathers, leaving a wet trail behind its frontier.

Even more infuriatingly, the Demon in front of him, a liar, this bringer of calamity, merely smiled wider, enjoying his anger and rage and religious fury. Enjoyed bringing out sinful desires to rip his head right off those thickly muscled shoulders. The Angel knew it would be a task to tear away all the thick, strong muscle with his bare hands, but he would do it the first chance he got.

And he would remove those blasphemous, white teeth.


	6. Chill

Still, the Demon refused to say another name other than Satan, so the Angel supposed he would settle for calling it Beast. Satan was a human term. After baring white teeth, the Beast had been interrupted by some visitor, an important one to him if he had the Angel removed from the throne room and dragged down to the basement by Baja. His pet didn’t follow, wasn’t allowed, which was smart on the Demon’s part. Give the Angel two minutes alone with the human and he would switch the loyalty over to him faster than the human could say no.

Baja seemed like a stupid brute at first glance, still was and always would be, but the Angel knew some Demons had some sort of intelligence to speak of. Not all of them were mindless dogs, unfortunately. Baja seemed to be one of them, having blind folded the Angel without being ordered to, and now the Angel couldn’t memorise any directions or start to learn the layout of this place.

And the Beast… The Angel sneered, hate filling his chest with a sinful and yet so deliciously warm feeling. Hate was a bad feeling, and yet it felt so right in this moment. Baja grunted, shifting his hold on the Angel, and he could almost imagine that the burning hate in his chest hurt the Demon. Oh how he wished it would.

The air began to cool down, and each step now jostled the Angel. Stairs? They were going down stairs, a feature he should memorise! Time seemed to slow as he counted each one, and added three more onto it, as he was certain he had missed, at most, the three from the beginning.

His sweat from the sweltering heat of the ground floor now caused shivers to cascade down his body, and he - pathetically - tried to snuggle into Baja’s heat, until he caught himself and snarled. Baja chuckled at him.

“There there Angel. I know I’m hot, but cool your passions down.”

No doubt - he needed a new word - the Demon was grinning like a fool at his predicament, frozen from the effects of the heat, and craving some warmth to offset the sudden temperature drop.

“Die in a hole.”

“No can do. I have a throne to protect, and one day claim.”

Hah! The Beast had competition, from his own subordinates. Direct subordinates, the ones with the most access to him when vulnerable and asleep. Perfect. Perhaps the Angel could use this to his advantage, cause a rebellion. Cause chaos to use to escape.

"Got another one for you to look after."

"How delightful. Put him wherever."

He was dropped down onto a freezing cold floor, and a chain was wrapped tight around his throat. Baja - or maybe the new Demon - yanked it, choking the Angel.

Baja laughed.

"Don't pull like a recalicant dog and you'll be able to breathe."

For good measure, Baja tightened it a little more, pausing to admire the wheezing of the Angel as his windpipe was squeezed relentlessly by the chain.

"Good boy."


	7. Summoned

Laying here, with the cold leaching into his metal bindings and seeming to freeze against his skin, the Angel shivered for the hundredth time. Time had no bearing here; the only passage of time was when he slept, but for how long each time, he did not know. Water was readily available, but the Angel detested the idea of bending over like a dog to lap out of the bowl by the door. For all he knew, that could be his demise at the hands of some hidden guillotine.

The corner he had tucked himself away in was right across from the locked door, and he sneered at the thought of the beasts that roamed carefree behind its gleaming barricade. Beside him, in a haphazard pile, was a thin and ragged blanket, brought by another Demon some time after he was left down here by Baja.

At the thought of the large and disgusting Demon, he snarled, tempted to kick out at the door. Once he escaped, he would make Baja kneel at his feet and serve him, the true Master, not that fake Satan who sat on a throne of bones. The Angel would make him bow to, make him regret taking the name of the Devil used to keep the humans nice and pliant for Heaven’s wishes. Maybe he would kill that black monstrosity of a child first, and paint Satan in the lifeblood of his own child. Yes, he would. Once he escaped.

“Up you get, birdy.”

A Demon pushed open the door to his cell, gripping his bound arms harshly.

“The little whelp of Satan wants to see you.”

Oh? The perfect opportunity.

***

Molotov played with Gwen’s hair, sat on his Sire’s bed as the older Demon had a shower. Satan knew there was no point keeping Molotov out, and so merely locked the bathroom door so he couldn’t be disturbed from his private time by his demanding son pestering him for something or other.

For now, the young Demon’s claws were gentle, merely threading through Gwen’s hair as his tail flicked lightly.

“Grow your hair out, slave.”

He murmured, lazily yanking the human’s head back to stare into his eyes. Grinning, Molotov pulled again.

“So I have more to pull.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Amber eyes gleamed with self-centred pride as the whelp nudged Gwen’s head to the side.

“You’re a good boy, slave. When Sire tires of you, I’m going to claim you as mine.”

Satan returned from his cleansing at that moment, growling at Molotov, who huffed and backed off from Gwen. The servant bowed his head, tensing at each step the being took, bringing him closer.

“Master...”

Gwen really hoped his Master didn’t lash him for a perceived betrayal. Luck was on his side it seemed, as the Dominant merely dried himself off and tied a fresh loincloth over his waist. Satan considered Gwen for a moment, gaze boring into the back of his head, before he leant down. Large teeth tore into Gwen’s shoulder, and he cried out, fisting the pelts below him.

“You’re mine.”

Satan growled against his bleeding neck, with finality.


	8. Break

After that, his Master left Gwen knelt by his throne, tail dragging along the floor as he strode out of the Throne Room. For a few blissful seconds, Gwen was alone. And then Molotov jumped into his Sire’s throne and grinned.

“Stand, slave.”

The human shivered, pushing himself to his feet and standing demurely in front of the other. A hand stroked down his belly, following the path of the blood still flowing from Satan’s bite, and latched onto his hip.

“You look delicious covered in blood, like a midnight snack.”

Teeth dragged over the wound as Molotov lightly placed his teeth on Gwen’s shoulder. For a second, Gwen thought the young Demon was about to eat him, but the rough scrape of a merciless tongue delved into one of the deeper holes. Gwen cried out, curling his hands in his short loincloth and trying to go to his happy space. However, Molotov merely sucked harshly, dragging Gwen back to his agonising reality.

“M-my Lord... please stop...”

A cackle blasted hot breath over the bite, cascading tingling spikes of pain along his spine. A no, then. He really hoped the heir to the throne had enough self control to not eat him. As much as Gwen wished he was free, he would much rather live.

“Molotov, the Angel, as you requested.”

Oh sweet relief! Distracted, the whelp released Gwen from his jaws and smirked at the Angel bound on his knees.

“Thank you.”

He let Gwen go, ignoring the human as he slid down the throne, between the other’s legs. 

“Hello, Angel.”

Molotov got to his feet, walking over to the Angel. On the way, he flippantly dismissed the guard, hissing when they hesitated. No answer came from the Angel, other than a disgusted glare and a wing twitch. 

Golden eyes glanced over to Gwen and widened, shocked at the state of his shoulder, no doubt. This only lasted for a second, for then he was glowering at the whelp.

“You find it satisfying to hurt those weaker than you?”

He demanded, pulling at his bindings once again and reopening scabbed over wounds. 

“He’s prettier when bloody.”

Molotov shrugged, kicking the Angel in the face.

“I bet you do, too.”

“Don’t you even think of laying your odious hands upon me!”

“Blades are too mainstream though! And it’s much more fun to dig around for the best bites to eat.”

The Angel struggled harder, snarling and trying to shuffle back, away from the whelp with sadistic tendencies. Bound as he was, he couldn’t outpace the Demon, who laughed. His struggles did cause a chain on his cuffs to snap…

It happened so quickly Gwen wasn’t sure even Molotov had enough time to know what hit him. 

Molotov choked as the now free Angel strangled him, the bindings on his wings close to breaking. Two broken lengths of chain hung from each wrist.

Sweat dripped down the entire body of the captive, dampening his feathers more and nearly blinding him. Hell was too hot for him. And yet he had the resolve to snap the bindings around his wrists and tackle the larger Demon. And now choke him.

Gwen shuddered as a foot connected with the Angel’s already torn stomach, the Angel groaning in pain. But… the Angel was so focused on killing the heir of Satan, he didn’t hear the Throne Room door open.


	9. Help

While the large Demon's entrance was unnoticed by the fighting pair, Gwen shuddered at the subtle rolling of muscles as they tensed in anticipation. For a second, he thought the Demon would egg the fight on to teach Molotov about getting out of a death grip, like he would do when Baja or Ventul lost their patience with the younger Demon. However, with three big strides, Satan approached the pair and went for the jugular, literally. Claws dug into the Angel's neck, squeezing air tight, while the other hand went for the wings.

A splash of blood, a wet tearing and one of the wings was hanging, attatched to the other by the bindings. Predictably, the Angel screamed, howling and thrashing, attempting to gouge out Satan's eyes. He merely tilted his head back, a silent snarl curling his top lip, fang-like teeth bared in a show of uncharacteristic emotion. Anger. No, worse. _Fur_y.

With one broad sweep, the Demon flung the Angel like one would a blanket, ignoring the sickening crunch as the impact against the wall broke the other wing, ignoring his threats and shouts, to focus on his whelp.

Other than a ring of bruising, and no doubt an aching head from oxygen deprivation, the whelp was in good condition. Molotov reached for his Sire, whining for good measure, to which his Sire responded well. Now safely cocconed in Satan's arms, the whelp settled down easily. Listening to the steady heartbeat always helped.

"Take the Angel back down to the basement."

A guard nodded and cuffed said being before dragging him away. Gwen shuddered at the trail of blood and feathers it left behind.

"Come."

With a soft nod, Gwen did so, following the Demon and his charge into the Demon's quarters. Molotov purred, gaining volume when the pair laid on the bed and he was allowed to sprawl out on top, like a very small babe again. Considering it has been many years since Molotov was small enough to do this comfortably, Gwen was surprised when Satan showed no discomfort or heavier breathing to deal with the lump laid upon his chest.

Even when Molotov fell asleep and became dead weight, Satan did nothing other than lay there and watch Gwen.

"Come."

He moved an arm enough to leave space for Gwen to settle beside him. The human didn't really want to, but he knew better than to disobey orders, and so he found himself rigid, a nasty set of claws, still bloodied from the Angel's now torn off wing - Gwen swore there were bits of feather stuck there too, tickling him - curled possessively around the top of his thigh.

He hoped he would soon be released back to the slave quarters, where he could wash the bite and be grudgingly attended to by the healer, who was gruff and grumpy but good to her charges.

For now, though, he was to stay with his Master, and tend to whatever whims he wished for.


End file.
